West of Westeros
by ClaryF
Summary: Bran is King of the Six Kingdoms, Sansa is Queen in the North, Jon returns to the Night's Watch. But what does Arya find West of Westeros?


**Hey everyone! I've been toying with a tiny idea in the back of my head for years but I never got anything concrete until this final episode of Game of Thrones, so for all it's faults, I am finally at peace now that it's out of my system. **

**I may make this longer or this may be a complete work in itself. I haven't quite decided yet so I'll leave it as complete for now.**

**I hope you guys like it and please don't forget to review/follow/favourite :)**

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The ship moved sluggishly through the waves, the lazy wind providing very little assistance to drive them forward. It had been like that for many days, and the men were growing restless, concerned that if the wind stopped altogether they would be trapped in the middle of the ocean, heading for an unknown land. Arya had struggled to keep their hopes up for many days but her talent was with weapons, not words and so she eventually fell silent and let them grumble, trusting that the captain would be far more encouraging than she was. In any case, as long as some wind remained their hope would not be lost.

She should not have been so hopeful. The next day she was awoken by the ship's first mate, whose calm countenance had disappeared, making her shoot out of her bed immediately, dreading the worst. She was glad that she had fallen asleep in her clothing the previous night, after a long night of bored drinking, for she would have had no time to change. The sailor grabbed her arm and dragged her outside, only giving her time to pick up her sword and dagger.

She had expected to find the boat ruefully still, but instead it was moving, and the wind was whistling loudly through the masts. She could feel the ship tilting dangerously under her feet even her cabin but had not realised the size of the waves that beat against the boat until she saw them. Huge bodies of water that seemed to touch the sky crashed against the ship, ratting it to its core. The rain poured heavily down on them, drenching her the second the stepped food outside.

The men were running around desperately to control the boat, and upon the deck the captain shouted orders while steering. Arya ran to help the crew, tying knots, storing everything on the deck in the belly of the ship and following any commands that the captain shouted at them.

Her vision narrowed to the task at hand, and for a long time she thought of nothing else. The floor was like ice, and she was glad the crew had been bred in the North where navigating through slippery surfaces was a lesson taught to children, because had it been anyone else, the wet deck and tilting ship would undoubtedly have thrown them overboard.

She was strengthening a knot beside the captain when she heard a crew member scream, a shrill sound of pure terror that she had not heard in a long time. She looked at him startled only to find him already mumbling a prayer under his breath, and she could see the cascading tears on his cheeks, surprisingly distinctive from the rain droplets. Arya looked to the captain beside her, only to find him muttering a prayer of his own.

Before them lay a maze of sharp rocks that jutted up from the roaring sea and pointed upwards at the sky, like Unsullied spears on the battlefield. It would be impossible to navigate through the rocks through calm seas, much less when they were being jostled to and fro, able to gain only enough control of the ship so that it wouldn't tip.

So that was the end then, so soon after the start of their journey. After all she had survived, she was going to die in the middle of the ocean while chasing a dream of the lands West of Westeros. She had always thought she would die in battle on her own terms, not like this, doomed to the bottom of the ocean with only the dark depths to remember her name.

She could hear men screaming, while others wailed or prayed, their arms extended towards the heavens. Time slowed as they watched the boat approach the rocks and the voices around her dimmed as her eyes came to focus solely on what lay ahead. The rain continued to pour down her face, running down her brow and her cheeks even as the wind buffeted her face, freezing her to the bone but she felt nothing. Nothing except the cold embrace of Death.

_Not today. _She thought to herself, but it fell on deaf ears, for how can one defeat a foe that cannot breathe or bleed? How can one overcome the insuperable forces of nature as they raged in an unwinnable battle? How can one overthrow fate?

No, there was no winning that day, and so, as she felt the hull hit the first rock, she allowed her eyes to flutter closed and gave herself to Death. She did not flinch as she fell to the ground on impact, nor when she felt herself fall into the sea. She dared not open her eyes when she felt something pierce her left arm, and when she felt Death pull her upwards she had no energy to fight, so she gave into eternal sleep.

Her head pounded and her arm throbbed when she regained consciousness. Arya did not dare open her eyes for a long time, afraid of what she would find if she did (though she would never outwardly confess her fear aloud). When at last she did open her eyes, she was forced to close them immediately, for the light was so bright it burnt them with its intensity.

Gradually, she allowed herself to become accustomed to the light, and when she finally sat up, she found herself on a large bed of silk sheets. The room around her was fit for a king, decorated with numerous paintings and tapestries of the highest quality. A fire burned brightly across from her, the only source of light in the otherwise dark room. Near the window was a table and chair, and beside it, a large bookcase filled to the brim with tomes. If a grand room was what she received after she died, then she could not understand why she had feared Death at all.

The door to her room opened and a lithe maid entered with a bowl of water in her hands, but at the sight of her awake, gave a startled cry and fled the room. Arya could hear the patter of her steps all the way down the hallway.

Gripped by dangerous curiosity, Arya rose. She swayed on her feet for several moments, the cold ocean and blood loss from the wound on her arm weakening her considerably. Her arm had been artfully bandaged, though it still throbbed every time she tried to move it. She found Needle waiting for her on the table and gingerly picked it up, hissing as the pain caused when she began wrapping the belt around her waist.

Once she had ascertained that she could walk without support, she slowly made her way out of the room, listening carefully for any sign of life. She could hear the crashing of waves and screech of birds, but otherwise, the palace seemed deserted and so began her exploration with quiet steps. The hallway she found herself in seemed eternally long, with many doors appearing intermittently. She quietly explored each one. They were mostly empty bedrooms or small sitting rooms, but all were dark and bare.

She found a new hallway that veered left and disappeared into the distance. She swore she could hear the faint echoes of a song and so followed it, hoping that perhaps she would find someone, even if only the maid that ran away. The sound of music grew louder as she walked, and she had no doubt that there was indeed someone playing. It was a slow ballad, melancholy and desperate in nature as if the musician was gripped by some miserable memories.

Once again there were many rooms in the hallway, but they were also empty, so she moved on. The pain in her arm began to increase and her eyes became heavy with exhaustion, but she persevered, desperate to find the source of the music.

Finally, she reached the room that the song was coming from. The door was closed, but she could see the light emanating from inside. She took a deep breath and opened the door slowly, revealing a tall man with platinum hair who sat on a chair facing the window, playing his harp, his eyes closed and brow creased in concentration. A Targaryen, she was sure of it.

If he knew of her presence he did not show it, for he did not stop nor hesitated and continued his sad ballad until its last note. Only then did his eyes open, his eyes widening in shock.

"Oh, it's you. Forgive me for not stopping, I thought you were my wife. She is quite used to my bouts of artistic inspiration, you see, and doesn't particularly mind if I ignore her until I am satisfied," he said, his lips quirking in fond amusement. "Unless of course she is in urgent need of something. Then she will make her intentions quite clear."

Arya said nothing, eyeing him sceptically. House Targaryen should be dead, with the exception of Jon, but there stood a one before her in all his glory. It could not have been more evident from the pale hair to the violet eyes. He appeared sane, however, although Arya had learned long ago to never trust a person by their demeanour.

"Who are you?" she finally asked, her hand itching to touch the handle of her sword.

"Of course, how rude of me. I am Rhaegar Targaryen–" His gaze suddenly moved behind her, and his eyes softened with obvious adoration, but before Arya could look back he spoke again. "–and this is my wife, Lyanna of House Stark."

Arya turned on her heel only to come face to face with the legendary Lyanna Stark, with her brown hair and wild eyes that shone with the savagery of the North. Lyanna Stark who inadvertently started a war that led to the downfall of House Targaryen and the rise of House Baratheon, which in turn led to all the events that happened after. Though could she really be blamed or was Rhaegar to blame for the secrecy and deception? Or perhaps Robert's inability to accept that the woman he loved did not love him back? Or was it simply the small actions of many small people whose decisions affected the fate of all of Westeros? Perhaps it was unfair to lay the blame on one person.

Lyanna smiled kindly at Arya but did not hesitate to take her place beside her husband, who waited patiently with an outstretched hand. She took it and kissed him sweetly before returning her gaze to Arya, who waited uncomfortably. They were completely different people, Rhaegar and Lyanna. He set an aura of melancholy serenity while she was all unrestrained ferocity and yet they stood together like two sides of the same coin, joined by powers beyond their control.

"Where is my crew?" Arya asked.

"They're dead," replied Lyanna, speaking for the first time. Where Rhaegar's voice was gentle, hers was more aggressive while still maintaining the same beauty that blessed her features.

Arya took a moment to mourn her deceased friends. "And I am not?"

Rhaegar and Lyanna eyed each other, as if in silent conversation, and Rhaegar shook his head sadly at her, to which she sighed.

"Yes and no," Lyanna said cryptically. Arya glared her and Lyanna sighed once more.

"You wished to know what is West of Westeros and why the maps stop, correct?" Rhaegar asked, cocking his head to the side.

Arya nodded in assent. "How do you know?"

"We hear whispers from the East," Rhaegar replied, and Arya frowned at the unhelpfulness of the response. "The maps stop because all who have attempted to sailed here have perished on those same rocks where your ship sunk. No one may enter or leave without the Lord of Light's consent."

Arya eyed the couple sceptically. "The Lord of Light?"

Rhaegar nodded solemnly. "All who die after serving the will of the Lord of Light, whether or not it was intentional, come here, where we may live in peace with the knowledge that we succeeded."

"And how exactly did you serve him? Or I, for that matter?" questioned Arya, still unconvinced by their words.

"Jon is Azor Ahai, the Prince that Was Promised, who would free the world from darkness. Jon killed my sister so she wouldn't become my father," Rhaegar explained. "But you, you defeated a threat far greater than the living. You defeated the Dead."

"The Night King," Arya muttered. Her arm continued to throb, and her head pounded against her skull. Rhaegar must have noticed her discomfort, for he urged her onto a chair and bade her sit while Lyanna grabbed some water from a pitcher that waited patiently on a table in the corner.

"So what does this mean for me?" Arya asked, once her thirst was sated.

Lyanna smiled kindly. "You remain here, in peace, in a land between life and death where all is good."

Arya sighed. She wanted adventure, not a life of idleness and boredom. She had left seeking new lands only to find Death instead.

"You are the only ones here?" Arya inquired.

Rhaegar shook his head. "There are others who died in the service of the Lord of Light and many still to come. You may meet them in time, but for now you must rest until you are healed. Come now, I shall escort you to your room, lest your strength fail you," he chuckled, but there was no mockery in his tone, only amusement.

He kissed his wife's cheek and then helped Arya back to her room, where she swiftly fell into a deep slumber.


End file.
